I wish it didn’t happen on my time.

You would probably think otherwise and say, “You’re literally dreaming what I imagined to be,” and think what was gifted to me was a blessing. No, it’s not.

My “gift” was anything but a blessing. For a boy like me who's been dealing with Dylan, a full-on narcissistic bully, all I ever wanted was a quiet life, free from the gazes of others treating me like some spectacle.

It’s not my fault I stand out in a crowd. My icy blue irises, inherited from my parents, mirrored the color of the glacial depths. In a crowd, my blonde hair and distinct facial features shouted loudly, a constant reminder of my foreign heritage. My parents, refugees who fled the war, brought me to the U.S., where my extraordinary appearance drew unwarranted attention.

How else do you expect a 17-year-old bloke to save the world? At that age, I found myself thrust into a world where gods walked among us, elves strolled casually, ghouls feasted on humanity, and my godfather, a god from bedtime tales, disrupted my understanding of reality.

So, if you're cool watching me grapple in this cursed life, I’ll start off by introducing myself. “I'm August Anderson, and here's how I ended up burdened starting with The Gift of Apollo.

The sole reason I bothered showing up to school was for my History and Literature class. I've always been a sucker for stories, you know, the whole Odysseus saga, Journey to the West, epic of Beowulf, and a bunch of others. They're the only things that remind me of my late mother.

She used to spin bedtime tales about heroes and legends. Most of them are forgotten, maybe thanks to the war torching most literary pieces or just because folks these days don't give a damn about it anymore.

Regardless, stories are powerful, they helped shaped our world.

It sure sound childish, I know.

Novels aren't exactly all the rage now, maybe a hundred years ago when they dominated the internet. Nowadays, people just want...

“Mr. Anderson, would you mind telling us the meaning of your painting?” Mrs. Patty asked from her perch on her chair. She's my Literature teacher, and she's a blast!

Mrs. Patty's also my neighbor, and since I'm living alone, she pretty much acts like a relative. Invites me over for dinner, or when she and Mr. Henry, her husband, hit the mall for new books. They're both book addicts, and I lucked out enjoying their massive collection in their makeshift library.

“It's a painting of King Arthur pulling out Excalibur, the Magic Sword, from the stone where it was lodged,” I gestured at the acrylic figure of a middle-aged man gripping the sword's hilt with both hands, an infamous tale I particularly liked.

“Does anyone know King Arthur?” I threw the question at my classmates, who were pretty much impressed by my painting. Well, it's one of the talents I've got, but no one knew about it till now.

“I don't think he painted that, Mrs. Patty,” Dylan sneered in his very annoying high-pitched voice, pointing at my presentation with ridicule and jealousy burning in his eyes.

Here we go again with this muscle-brained idiot.

Dylan, the notorious school bully, never missed an opportunity to torment me. He reveled in making me feel like an outsider, constantly reminding me that my uniqueness made me a target.

At one point, I started to resent my looks, not that I’m narcissistic, but Dylan was very clear about his reasons on why he was picking on me.

I shot him a look of annoyance, but firing back would only land me in more trouble after class, which I doubt he would let me just go easily after this one. I helplessly turned to Mrs. Patty, expecting her to say something.

“That's his painting, dumbass. I saw him doing it in the library,” Sierra defended. Thank God for her. We're not friends, but we do share a common enemy. She can't stand it when Dylan bullies other kids.

She’s the same as me, but he doesn’t like anything that is about History, that’s one thing she loathes, maybe she’s also a victim of the war, I don’t know but she seems to give off that vibe.

She casted an annoyed look at Dylan to which Dylan flinched a little.

I can relate to that, She’s not exactly the approachable type of person, her jet-black hair and eyes would tell you that messing with her won’t do you any good, at some point, I was convinced that she’s scarier than Dylan.

“Okay, as I said, this is King Arthur, and it’s also the beginning of his path as the King of Britain, he has a partner, here” I pointed at a much older man behind Arthur on my painting, “This is Merlin, the magician.”

I continued my short presentation about my painting, which garnered claps from my classmates who were clearly impressed.

I inched a smile, just not too obvious, it wasn’t my thing.

“Thank You for that wonderful presentation August, obviously your classmates enjoyed it, am I right?”

“YES” they all chorused, well, except for some, Dylan, and his lackeys. I’m lucky I had some of the nicest classmates this school year unlike the previous ones, they cared less about Dylan, which to his disappointment, gets on his way of bullying me as some would try siding with me, very occasional but much appreciated.

The day dragged on with two more classes that I don’t fancy – Algebra and Chemistry. Not a fan of either; they've got a knack for turning simple things into a right mess. I also don’t like numbers.

CRING!

The school bell finally rang, and classes were dismissed. Everyone cheered, as per usual, rushing out of the classroom. There was an event after class, from 4 PM to 8 PM—the club fair taking place on the fields.

I strapped my gray backpack and prepared to go home. Just as I was about to exit the room, a group of boys were blocking the door. Damn it, everyone left already. I don’t have a way out of this.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

“Admit it, Augie. That’s not your painting,” Dylan said. I really hate it when he calls me Augie; it’s really gross, should I call him DeeDee in return? Probably not.

“It’s not mine, yeah, so please, let me go home,” I was reluctant, but I decided to surrender quickly. No point dragging it out and arguing with him when he won't believe me anyway.

“Nah-uh, you're staying here until the fair's done.” He pushed me hard, and I landed on my back, thankfully cushioned by my backpack. Dylan shut the door and used a wire lock to seal it from the outside.

Brilliant, now I'm boxed in.

They laughed at me before leaving with so much satisfaction, they really made sure to turn off the lights on the hallway. No point banging hard on the door and hollering for aid; everyone's for sure gallivanting in the field.

I shifted my attention into the classroom where I am now trapped for the rest of the day, probably.

The oppressive shadows cast by the dying sun painted the classroom in hues of melancholy as the clock stubbornly approached 5 PM. The once vibrant walls, adorned with tales of heroic exploits, now closed in on me like a suffocating shroud, echoing the silent cries of my helplessness. The distant murmur of the bustling club fair outside only intensified the gnawing worry that clung to the air within, where every second felt like an eternity under the ploys of Dylan's petty games.

I let out a weary sigh and plopped down on a chair. Luckily, I've got a book stashed away – a solid way to kill time. Hopefully, Dylan sticks to his word and springs me out of this room after the fair.

I felt slight tinge of frustration, I guess next time I should really fight back and hold my ground against Dylan, this has to stop eventually.

I rehearsed myself into the book I was reading, it’s about the World War 3 that ended 10 years ago. It was a war for territories and fossil fuels, kind of stupid right? Those power-hungry politicians were hell-bent on wrecking everything with their greed, thinking they could take it all to the grave.

There's another major event that went down at the tail end of the war – technically one of the biggest reasons why it ended prematurely.

A massive wave of energy exploded into the atmosphere, like the shockwave from some epic volcanic eruption. It circled the planet a few times, rippling waves sweeping off the clouds in the sky before vanishing. At first, the authorities thought it was a volcano blowing its top in Alaska or somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, where those super volcanoes hang out. But they couldn't pinpoint the source – it just went down and left no trace of what caused it.

No one knows the implications of that explosion, a dense fog followed through on the following days after the explosion, a phenomenon that covered the entire world and left everyone scared out of their wits.

Scientists said they weren’t made out of vapor or smoke but some other substance they can’t understand, nor they have the technology to even inspect it.

It was intangible yet visible to the eyes.

They called it “The Silent Veil.”

The mist enshrouded the world for three days before it receded, and once again, it left everyone with questions.

What caused these mysterious shenanigans? Some floated the idea that it could be alien mischief, others thought it was a sign that doomsday was lurking, but no one had a concrete answer, not until 5 years later.

Weird sightings of bizarre creatures started popping up worldwide, creatures straight out of fiction. A bird spitting fire, a snake-like thing that could fly, a teleporting tiger. The world, still traumatized from the war, got thrust into another crisis. Deaths from encounters with these critters shot up, and only high-grade weapons could handle some, but not all.

But it didn’t end with just animals. The emergence of people who could use extraordinary powers started to arise and it started an uproar.

And just when you thought politicians learned their lessons from the war, they started craving these superhumans, masking it as a special movement to defend against magical creatures – “The Realization of Mythology.” That's what the new-generation philosophers liked called it. Old literary materials proved how these creatures were initially just make-believe figures turned real.

With these shifts, an anti-government squad formed – the “Schadenfreude” – made up of these superhumans who loathed the idea of being puppets for the same politicians who instigated the last world war.

Now, you think it should have stopped there.

It didn’t. In fact, it was just the beginning,

Schadenfreude devised a system classifying superhumans into different categories, basing it on mythological ideologies.

Presently, five unique classifications distinguish these individuals: Ascendant, Reavers, Scions, Harbingers, and Apostles, ranging from the weakest to strongest.

For kids like us, it was just a far-off fantasy.

Many desired powers, oblivious to the burdens that came with them, unless used for personal gain. Regardless, the world underwent a drastic transformation.

It's not something that resonates with me, really.

I'd rather bury myself in books than dive into crime and be part of the new world order. Sure, it sounds cool, but not when you're the one constantly dodging danger, especially when so much of this phenomenon remains shrouded in mystery.

Right now, humans are like moths to a flame, clueless about what's truly unfolding, forced to adapt to this paradigm shift.

Now, 10 years after the first explosion, things seemed to have returned to normal, albeit with the addition of superheroes. Society had made a significant recovery from the remnants of World War 3, thanks to these heroes.

I closed the book and sighed.

I just wished someone could help me escape this stifling room. Having a room on the fourth floor meant no one noticed me, especially when the guards seldom patrolled at night, which I doubted would happen tonight.

It wasn't the best time to panic, but the thought of being alone for hours wasn't good for the mind, especially in a creepy campus during this era. I searched the room for something useful, but nothing caught my eye. Should I start screaming? Bang on the door? But what if it attracted the attention of something not normal...

“Ha, I wish I could do something,” I muttered to myself.

“Do you?” then a voice spoke, right at my ears!

“AAH!” I yelped in shock, stumbling back and landing on my butt hard. No one was supposed to be here with me.

Panicking, I bolted to the other end of the room without bothering to look back.

I’m probably turning pale from shock and fear. I put my backpack in front of me to act as some sort of shield, though I doubt It would actually help.

“Oh, sorry about the scare, I didn’t mean it.” I turned to see the source of the voice.

There, I spotted a laid-back middle-aged man, probably hitting his mid-20s. His face, a canvas framed with a god-like visage, was veiled by tendrils of blonde hair reminiscent of golden starlight. His eyes, lit up in radiant yellow, mimicked the sun's glow. Seated like royalty, he shot a nonchalant smile my way with lazy eyes, basically saying, “I'm bored.”

“W-who are you?” I stammered, gasping for air from the surge of adrenaline. I clenched my fist to stop my hands from uncontrollably shaking.

“Apollo, your godfather,” he casually introduced, his well-toned voice momentarily making my head hazy.

“I don’t know any godfather,” I replied, trying to recall if my parents ever mentioned one.

“Well, they didn’t live long enough to tell you about me,” he reasoned. Wow, look how sensitive this man is!

“How are you here? Are you one of those heroes too?” I asked, still wary of his towering presence.

“Ha, don’t compare me to the likes of you humans. You've tasted power, and suddenly you think you're top dogs,” he scoffed, wearing an annoyed expression now.

“You’re no human then?” I deduced.

“Of course, I’m a god”

“My godfather” I said.

“No, I’m really a god,” he insisted, like he's daring me to believe such a ridiculous thing. Wait, it's not like it's impossible, but still, what are the chances, right?

“I’m sorry, but if you’re a god, why are you here?” I’m starting to get a grip on myself, with the tension getting a bit bearable, he seems to be on the good side.

“I’m here to grant you your wish,” he claimed.

“What wish? I don’t have a wish,” I denied. I don’t remember saying—wait, I actually did, just moments ago. But that doesn’t count!

“Remember now?” he smirked.

“Yeah, but I didn’t actually mean it!” I protested.

“Regardless, I’m still here to give you something nice and helpful.”

“For some reason, I don’t think it’s actually nice and helpful,” I muttered.

I could totally see where this was headed, but I was clinging to denial. There’s no way this is actually happening!

“Oh, come on, you're gonna love this, just like those puny humans,” he said, then snapped his fingers, and a blinding orb of light appeared right in front of him and shot at me faster than I could blink. It didn't even give me a moment to react.

And that's when I realized I was screwed.

The next thing I knew, my consciousness slipped away, and darkness embraced me.